


Iceland

by ohp_03



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 19:27:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10497933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohp_03/pseuds/ohp_03
Summary: "All of my anxieties and depression, everything I’ve been through—for my entire being it’s always been there, in the back of my mind. Just this constant reminder of what I’ve lost or what I’m not or what I’m missing. But when I look at you… When I kiss you, when I touch your skin, Clarke…” You’re rambling, and you can feel the tears welling in your eyes. She places her hand over yours, where it belongs. “Everything goes silent. And it’s just you, and it’s just me. And I—"Or the one where Lexa tells Clarke that she loves her for the first time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by "Iceland," a beautiful song by Petit Biscuit. Enjoy.

_**Iceland** _

You’ve been through a lot of shit in your life, that much is true.

You were only a toddler when your father abandoned you and your family. Your mother, a woman of incomparable strength and wisdom, carried the weight of the world on her shoulders for you and your sister, only to have it crash down on her years later. She barely made it three months after the diagnosis before you and Anya were left to fend for yourselves.

You buried your mom on a cold, rainy November day, three days before your seventeenth birthday.

Costia stood by your side at the funeral, holding a black umbrella high above your head to keep you dry while the raindrops converged with your tears, small wet streams falling wildly down your cheeks. She held on to you that night, promising that it would be okay.

No one held you anymore once she moved away for college, and she decided that long distance wouldn’t work between you the two of you.

You couldn’t blame her, really. If anything, you were furtively jealous that she escaped that small, all-too-familiar Virginia town you grew up in together. No matter how much you hurt, you were just as proud of her.

You got into NYU on a hefty scholarship, partially because you and Anya were broke, and partially because you actually did have decent grades. Your mother didn’t raise a fool. You worked hard, no matter how tough things were. It was your mother’s dying wish that you continue in school and make something of yourself.

“Whatever you are,” your mother said, “be a _good_ one.”

Anya didn’t say much when you told her you were leaving. But, deep down, you knew she was proud of you.

Music was always your escape. The melodies and harmonies you remixed on your laptop gave you solace from the world that continued to crash around you. Out of death and despair, from darkness and desolation, you found a fiery, burning passion in sounds. The chords you strummed on your guitar, the words you scribbled onto paper. You were still buried under the weight of your emotions, but at least you could see sunlight poking through the cracks, begging you not to let go of hope just yet.

Hope finally came. And when she did, it was in the form of a slightly intoxicated blonde standing outside the bathroom at a party your friends had dragged you to.

“You know, I bet they’re having sex in there,” the girl in front of you slightly slurs. Her lips stick out in an adorable pout. “It’s been over ten minutes already.”

You’re not used to talking to pretty girls, but you will yourself to play it cool. “The fact that it’s been ten minutes is what you’re basing that conclusion off of?”

The blonde turns around to look at you, puzzled. You see the sky she holds in her eyes for the first time, and you need to clear your throat before continuing. “I would’ve made that conclusion based off the fact that there’s no other logical reason for a male and female to go to the bathroom together.”

The blonde purses her lips, seemingly pondering your comment. “Well maybe she needed help with her zipper,” she shrugs her drunk bathroom logic away with an absentminded wave of her hand. “I’m Clarke.”

You smile politely. “Lexa.” A pause. “And, Clarke?"

"Hmm?"

"She was wearing a skirt.”

You fall in love with Clarke slowly, and then all at once. Most nights you spend in the art studio she lives out of in the Upper East Side, generously bought for her by her parents. You learn that Jake and Abby Griffin are as beautiful as their daughter. They welcome you with open arms when you first meet them over Thanksgiving break.

On the nights when you’re not at Clarke’s, she’s in the music studio with you while you finish composing pieces for your classes. You discover how easy it is to bear your soul to the blonde, in music and in words.

She tells you about Finn. You tell her about Costia.

She tells you that her parents took forever to accept that bisexuality isn’t a phase. You tell her about how Anya simply said, “No shit,” when you told her you were gay.

She tells you it’s weird to eat ranch on your pizza. You tell her it’s weird not to.

You guys just _click_.

There was no exact moment, but somewhere between Chinese takeout for dinner, nights watching Netflix with her friends, and long adventures around New York City, you decide that you love Clarke Griffin, and you’re glad you didn’t give up hope.

But it isn’t until you’re both hanging out in the music studio some many months into your relationship that you finally realize it.

“Have you ever written a song about me?” Clarke asks. She wraps her arms around you while you sit before a complex array of switches and knobs, desperately trying to finish an assignment due tomorrow. “I mean, it’s not a big deal if you haven’t, I’m just curious.”

What you don’t say is that Clarke Griffin is one subject too complex to compile into a three-minute melody, with words never justifiably describing her perfection.

Clarke is a “lazy Sunday” kind-of-girl, with a wild side on Friday nights that you can barely fathom.

Her heart is gentle and kind, her touch soft and welcoming. But she will pin you down without warning when you walk through the door, tearing your clothes off without hesitation, scratching your back as you make love to her on her art studio floor.

She’s quiet and thoughtful, painting slow deliberate strokes on your back, creating constellations and galaxies that seem to come to life with every shade of purple and blue she carefully chooses. She’s loud and rambunctious, blasting your demos in the car like the proud girlfriend she is, windows down and hair blowing as she cuts people off in New York City traffic.

What you don’t say is that you’ve tried, incredibly hard, on multiple different occasions, to try and weave and encompass all that she is, all that she _means_ to you, into a song, and each time you come up dreadfully short.

What you do say is nothing, and yet everything.

You spin her around onto your lap without warning. She gasps, her elegant hands landing on the controls in front of you to hold herself steady. You swallow the gasp with a kiss, your tongue instantaneously finding its way to the roof of her mouth. Her mouth is familiar, her mouth warm and gentle against your lips.

Your clothes are quickly discarded, tossed aside with fervor and purpose. You make love to her in the studio. It’s messy and clumsy, slow and perfect.

When she leaves in the early hours of the morning, promising to let you know when she gets home safe, you return to your music.

At first, you think you’re losing mind in crazy, stupid love as Clarke’s sighs and gasps, moans and quiet whispers, echo throughout the studio. You simultaneously realize two things: 1) embarrassingly, you inadvertently recorded audio samples of the two of you having sex, and 2) Clarke’s sounds as you make love to her are the most beautiful melody you’ve ever heard.

And you love her.

It doesn’t matter that you lost an entire week’s worth of audio samples over this. It doesn’t matter that your mother passed away when you were young, or that Costia and your father left you. All you know is that, in this moment, you’ve never felt more _alive._

Ever since you met Clarke, you knew she was special. She elevates herself like no one you’ve ever seen. She can be sarcastic and bitter when she’s frustrated or stressed, and maybe you should’ve cut her some more slack when she was late to your three-month anniversary dinner. But throughout everything in the last several months, you found solace in the belief that Clarke would still be there every morning.

The fears, the self-deprecation, the anger, the depression. That girl you met outside of the bathroom is the hope you’ve been looking for. She is the love you’ve always craved. And it is this hope and this love that make the bad feelings go away.

You work quickly over the next hour. As the song comes so naturally to you, you can’t put together the audio fast enough. You struggle to keep up as passion and faith burst forth from your chest, spilling creativity and wonder over every melody, every note as they escape from the darkness that’s consumed your mind for so long.

You seem erratic, slightly crazed, and completely mad as you pound on her door the next afternoon after submitting your assignment with minutes to spare.

“Lexa?” she smiles at the sight of you on her doorstep, and then quickly frowns when she takes in your heavy panting and bloodshot eyes. “Is everything okay? Did you make it back home at all last night?” She's berated you before for spending too many nights in the music studio and not getting enough sleep. She cares so much about you.

“No, and I barely submitted my assignment on time. But I want you to listen to what I made.”

You push your way past your beautiful, absolutely breathtaking figure of a girlfriend, Clarke Griffin, into her apartment, grabbing her hand as you do so. She barely closes the door before you’re dragging her into her bedroom, spinning her around and pulling her in for a long, languid kiss. She reciprocates, sighing into your mouth. You wonder if this is what it feels like to be high.

“Here,” you say once she pulls away. She takes the disc from your hand, brows raised. It’s a cute look on her. “It’s my assignment. I want you to listen to it.”

She smiles curiously, but puts the disc into her laptop nevertheless. She pats the bed, asking you to sit beside her. You oblige; who are you to deny her anything? Clarke Griffin deserves the world.

You know you should let her listen in peace, but you can’t resist the way that the sun from the window is falling upon her hair, setting your heart on fire. Or the way that her lips curl slightly into a gentle smile as the music you spent hours laboring over begin to overpower the silence of Clarke’s apartment. Or the way that her eyes are set ablaze and her body begins absentmindedly swaying to the beat as she moves just inches away from you.

“It’s a song about how you make me feel,” you whisper, barely loud enough for her to hear, as if speaking will wake you up from this dream you’re living. “You make so happy, Clarke. With you, I feel so alive. I know that I don’t have to be afraid anymore. All of my anxieties and depression, everything I’ve been through—for my entire being it’s always been there, in the back of my mind. Just this constant reminder of what I’ve lost or what I’m not or what I’m missing. But when I look at you… When I kiss you, when I touch your skin, Clarke…” You’re rambling, and you can feel the tears welling in your eyes. There’s a lump in your throat that you hadn’t noticed before. Her eyes are watering too, and you notice how they look like the ocean, rather than the sky, when they do. She places her hand over yours, where it belongs. “Everything goes silent. And it’s just you, and it’s just me. And I— _I love you_.”

You feel her lips first, and then her perfect blonde hair envelops your face as you fall onto the bed underneath her. You kiss her back like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do for the rest of your life. And if it _were_ the last thing you ever do, you know you’d die the happiest woman in the world.

Just when you think it can’t get any better, when you think you’ve reached the epitome of happiness, when she’s running her hand down the length of your stomach beneath your shirt, she whispers, quietly… A secret for only your ears to hear.

“ _I love you too.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to comment or come talk to me at b3-yonce.tumblr.com :)


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